Silk
by kajamiku
Summary: Orochimaru plays with Sasuke like a doll, in more ways than one. OroSasu.


**Title:** Silk  
**Author:** kajamiku  
**Pairing:** OroSasu  
**Warning(s):** Angst, sexual stuff...  
**Disclaimer:** "Naruto" belongs to Masashi Kishimoto, not to me ;;  
**Summary:** Orochimaru plays with Sasuke like a doll, in more ways than one.

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**Silk**

Orochimaru smelt like incense. It reminded Sasuke of the small shrine his family had kept behind closed sliding doors, the ones that led off from a side-room he was not allowed to enter on his own. It was a heady scent, musky and strong, a scent that Sasuke doubted his teacher had acquired on purpose. It was a careless smell after all, easily recognised by those who managed to get close and had been privileged enough to notice it and lucky enough to survive.

It was that smell that lingered around Sasuke even when the sennin was nowhere in sight, when he thought himself alone and still had to wonder if it was true. It invaded him, caught his clothes like flame and slowly burned deeper and harsher as the days rolled by.

The smell transferred to his teacher's clothes, the kimono he favoured in contrasting colours, red and cream, violet and rose, black and white, the kimono he liked to dress Sasuke in. Sasuke, who looked pretty in the kimono Orochimaru draped over his pale skin – the man's doll, no more or less – Sasuke, the (almost) living evidence of his teacher's perversion.

It was possession, those white hands, larger than Sasuke's own, that slid across his skin like rain, tugging the heavy silk over his shoulders. It was the weight he noticed most, the wide heaviness of fold after fold of material that was laid and wrapped and pulled about his body. Fingers that exerted more pressure than necessary as they fastened the obi or tied the cloth belt, the knot made slowly and carefully as if the kimono wasn't just going to be ripped open later, when it was the teacher's patience that needed reprimanding and not his student's.

The range of kimono Orochimaru set aside could have kept him occupied with Sasuke for a long time, if there weren't more important things for them to do. The training was hard but fulfilling and every time he knelt opposite his teacher in his rooms as evening set in, his body hot and tired, his mind buzzed and hazy from hours of instruction, it felt like one more step made, one more day checked off.

But Sasuke's days seemed like nights, long and desolate, with little light and reprieve held tauntingly from his grasp like a traveller far from his bed. He liked night better.

His nights were spent in the fine kimono, the clothes his teacher dressed him in, gently like dressing a porcelain doll, until after the sake had been drunk and the subordinates dealt with, and the snake sennin could draw him away from the light and into rooms that seemed to span years, that were warm the moment the kimono was gone.

Sasuke waited for the dark to come. He waited as he knelt on tatami matting and ate his dinner, chopsticks snapping up the food like they had jaws of their own, his dark eyes picking food he liked from food he didn't, ebony mirrors jumping from bowl to bowl in a slow and methodical manner. He waited opposite Kabuto, listening to his dull droning as he attempted to entertain their master with stories of the day, of incidents inside and out of their forest lair, of the nations and their stupidity, of Akatsuki and their movements – here Sasuke listened, though his eyes did not stray from their perusal of food – and Orochimaru ate slowly and said little. He waited while the sake was drunk, while he felt green eyes on him and could tell the end of the meal was approaching.

Then he waited for the exhaustion to fade in the anticipation, for his skin to feel suddenly warmer in its encasement of silk, for his usual neutral expression to become harder to keep. He enjoyed that feeling.

He refused to let it show to anyone, although he doubted Orochimaru was fooled (he never was), and when asked to follow his teacher simply answered 'yes', arranged the long folds of material around him, and did so. Kabuto always managed to keep that sour expression from his face until his master's back was turned.

Orochimaru smelt like incense. His skin looked cold to the touch but wasn't. It was whiter than Sasuke's, perfectly smooth, and just as warm as any normal person's flesh should be. His hands were worn from training, but not coarse or rough as Sasuke knew his were, and they knew more than just seals. Orochimaru was Sasuke's teacher in more than just ninja techniques and sword practice, and he never felt surprised when he got another lesson, even if it was somewhere he never expected.

Nothing was said anymore. The halls, the rooms, that place, they were all silent and dark, and it was with hurried breath and eager hands that the layers of kimono material were removed, that they slid from his shoulders to the floor, like a snake shedding its skin. His teacher's mouth moved to his neck first, lips and tongue and teeth over the seal, as if he was wondering if it had faded during the daylight hours, and Sasuke was forced to remember how much Naruto had fought to stop this, to stop him, to protect him from all of this. It made it all the more desirable.

Sasuke was always first to lose his clothes. Sometimes the sennin had conquered him once, twice, before all of his were gone. But that didn't really matter.

He had rooms of his own once. Rooms he had sat alone in, bored and sulky, and stared at the empty walls, the sparse furniture and creaky bed, the colourful rug at the bed's foot that looked so out of place that Sasuke considered burning it to cinders with a fire jutsu. But now he couldn't even remember where those rooms were. If he tried to find them he would likely end up wandering the mistakable corridors for hours in vain, lost and waiting for a white hand to take his arm and lead him back.

It was a dance of ghosts, what they did, the turning of limbs, the meeting of mouths, the friction of flesh upon flesh. They folded together, curled and wrapped like kimono silk, white against white, black against white, red against white, and did things that normal ghosts could never do.

The sounds of their meeting echoed on the half bare walls – the study's walls were non-existent, bookshelves, diagrams and charts covering the plain stone, but the bedroom had only one scroll above the door, an old yellowed thing that had lost its bottom pin and had rolled to the top and hidden its contents from view – the grunts and moans, the muttered words and whispered nonsense, sounded crude reflected back, and Sasuke liked to hear it.

Orochimaru liked to hold his arms, to pin his wrists and watch him squirm, he liked to tease, to watch the mounting frustration in his student's expression and refuse to give him what he wanted.

Sasuke enjoyed the early times, the playing out of frustration and lust on his body, the pent up desire that was unleashed the moment Sasuke's back hit the bed. He enjoyed this more because his teacher didn't have control, because this was the only time he would ever see something of the like. He surrendered himself to Orochimaru because he was not stronger, but that didn't mean he didn't enjoy it, that he didn't beg and plead and moan to see Orochimaru's long tongue winding around parts of him he had never let anyone else touch.

These times were never spoken of. They were the subject of many secret leers sent through his teacher's green snake eyes, but nothing was ever said about it. When the kimono were draped over his pale flesh, it was the many visible marks the cloth was covering that Sasuke watched in the mirror, but like Orochimaru, he didn't say anything about it.

Talk was something unimportant between them, something that was relatively rare when inside those rooms, when he could smell that scent first hand.

Orochimaru smelt like incense. His skin looked cold to the touch but wasn't. And every time those white hands took up the next silk kimono, the material thick with that musky smell, it was all Sasuke could do not to remember the night before.


End file.
